Anesthesia
by Hardwood Studios
Summary: Will has a dinner date. Hannibal serves his date for dinner. [Hannibal/Will]


_A/n: So. Hannibal. I love Hannibal, I love the character, I love the movie series, and now I love the show. Anthony Hopkins set the bar pretty damn high with his portrayal of the Hannibal Lecter character, and I expected Mads Mikkelsen to fall short. But he didn't fall short! So far, I think he's doing a phenomenal job as our favorite sociopathic doctor. And Hugh Dancy as Will Graham? Woah, buddy. He gives me the chills, the delightful chills. _

_I never really had a slashy pairing to work with as far as the movie series went, Clarice Starling and Doctor Lecter was something of a match made in heaven. And the portrayal of Will Graham in Red Dragon was subpar. But now, we have Hugh Dancy and Mads Mikkelsen lighting up the screen, and I'm in love. Something dramatic and heavy must be written in their honor. _

_So I predict some graphicness ahead, some nudity, that sort of thing. We all love some graphic nudity, but for those of you who don't - Well, there's the door. _

_Song of Choice - Aria Da Copa by Bach. It's on the Hannibal album, and just...just put it on repeat. Seriously. Or The Journey, from the Book of Eli soundtrack. Great sex song, that one is. _

* * *

There is discomfort in the tense set of his red mouth, and Hannibal is curious. Curious like a striped cat, watching a field mouse between the stalks. Will isn't casual by nature, but he isn't particularly skittish. He squirms in his cheap polyester, and Hannibal wonders what woolen thoughts are nesting in his brain. They must itch. He stares dark and thin, but Will is too lost to notice.

"You're thinking too loudly, William."

Will looks up, round catalina blues. "Was I?" He smiles nervously, lips trembling together. Hannibal doesn't quite smile, but his face loosens. Curious, curious. Will, his mind is a delicate network of strings and cogs - ideas and dreams woven at the sputtering loom. He wants to see and know and possess. Pick apart and piece together, like all great puzzles. "Perhaps you'd like to share?"

Will shudders into himself. "Not particularly."

Hannibal raises the one brow. "You'd have us sit in silence?"

"I like silence." Petulant, almost.

Hannibal stamps down a smile. "I suppose you've earned some silence."

And so they descend into a noisy sort of silence, with shuffling and too much thinking. Will shifts, and the leather squeaks under him. His fingertips skitter across his thigh, and he bites into pink lips. Hannibal is content to watch. _Fluttering tawny lashes, fine lines. Cheeks burn, and dark brows furrow._ A truly gorgeous creature, trapped inside his own head. Hannibal wants to bite down and taste all the sweets and salts, but he won't. Will would taste divine, more so than any fibrous tissue or red slab to touch his hot pan. But-

Will is more than a meal.

A quiet breath, and the silence stumbles. Will is staring at his feet. "Ah, question."

Hannibal smiles, the urge too overwhelming. "Of course."

"From a purely objective standpoint, would you say..." A pause. "...would you say I'm appealing? Physically?"

Hannibal feels a small burst of surprise, spreading quietly. His face keeps blank, but his insides are buzzing with question. His mouth tightens at the corners, but he answers.

"You are very pleasing to the eye, Will." He says softly and seriously.

Will looks up, his eyes startled and bright. They regard each other carefully.

"I don't see it." He admits, sinking into the leather. "I've never seen it, not in myself. I recognize beauty in others, though I've never felt attracted to that beauty. Not even during the awkward, hormonal fluctuations of my adolescence. I suppose that's a good thing, because who would return my attraction?" He laughs low and bitter. Hannibal frowns.

For Will to think so lowly of himself, it was maddening.

"Why dwell on this now?" He asks. Will spares him an unreadable look. He folds like a pale turtle, reluctant to answer. Hannibal won't press. A beat of silence.

"I don't know how to knock." Will starts with a sigh. "Or so Jack tells me. His door was closed, I should have knocked."

"And Jack had his door closed for a reason, I presume."

"He was speaking with someone, a man I'd never seen before. A local detective." Will flushes. His fingers lace tightly, and his eyes fall beneath white lids. Hannibal suddenly understands. He feels displeasure and polar cold. "And you recognized the beauty in this detective." He says calmly, the words tasting acrid. Will holds himself rigid. He doesn't look up. "He was handsome, and I-I felt something. Like a warm, heavy stone in my stomach."

And Hannibal feels slow, simmering anger. "You were attracted to him."

"It was strange, I felt so warm. He introduced himself to me, and we shook hands. He already knew who I was, but..." Will frowns at his shoes. "...there was no disgust or apprehension. He was friendly."

"His name?" A potential appetizer with worcester and mustard seed. Hannibal feels a little bit feral, and listens close. Will doesn't notice his intensity, he only smiles something small and breakable. "Pierce Noir."

"Pierce has made quite the impression on you." Hannibal says this offhandedly, but acerbic madness rears up.

_Heat oil in a skillet, fry mustard and cumin seeds until they begin to crackle. Add onion and chili pepper, fry gently, stir continuously._

_Add meat, ground spices, worcester sauce and tomatoes. Season with salt and pepper, fry over medium heat for three to five minutes._

_Serve with rice. _

"He asked me to dinner."

Hannibal almost forgets himself. Time crumbles, and they search for something in the cracks. "I think I'll go." He finished softly. Hannibal remembers to breathe, to smile, to say his quiet congratulations. But his insides are smoldering cold, icicles hanging low and white wind whipping. His smile is tight, difficult to hold. His eyes are thin and black, nighttime slits.

Hannibal isn't angry. He's hungry.

* * *

Pierce Noir, recently-promoted-detective of the upstanding Quantico Department. Mid-to-late thirties, though time has been kind. Tall and wide, one door length tall and two men wide. Dark hair, like crisp raven feathers. Bright eyes, like summer green grass. Intelligent, toeing the line of genius. Quick hands, accuracy something of an office legend. An excellent cop, an excellent man.

_An inconvenience_. Hannibal files away the small details, each one carefully gathered.

He takes a bottle of Moscatel in hand, the amber liquid sloshing, and turns slowly. The mahogany hall shimmers under golden coronas, smelling faintly of sweet grapes. Morais Vineyard and Winery is an old favorite, known for their premium product and classic flavors. He visits often, tasting and savoring. They push the envelope with traditional technique, and embrace the new. Admirable in a timeless, traditional craft.

The tasting hall hums with quiet chatter, lilting piano keys from somewhere above. The last pink sunbeams fall across dark floorboards and colorful bottles. Not many linger, all the fragile lovers having gone away. A tall silhouette stands in the sun, casting long shadows across the wood, and Hannibal smiles. Pierce Noir, unsuspecting in his denim and plaid. His fingers wrap tight around a bottle of Cabernet Franc. Well balanced, smooth, brightly pale red. He stares hard, scrutinizing the swish and swirl of the drink.

Hannibal approaches. His steps are quiet and deliberate, and Pierce is too absorbed in his scrutiny.

"You don't partake often, I assume." He says. Pierce straightens, turning slightly. His eyebrows climb.

"Am I that obvious?" Suspicious.

"You were concentrating so hard, I feared you might break." He is the perfect imitation of humor and sincerity. Pierce, though usually one for sensing ill intentions, is easily fooled. They share a short laugh. His defenses lower. "I'm more the cheap beer type." He admits with a wry smile. So easy, too easy.

"Special occasion?"

Pierce softens. "You could say that."

Hannibal darkens, but hides it well. "Ah, special someone."

"Very special." And Pierce looks faraway.

"Then may I suggest..." He pulls a fat, garnet bottle from the rack. "...this imported Rosa Regale. Brachetto grapes, bright, fresh berry flavors. No wine pairs better with chocolate." Pierce takes the wine, looking faintly impressed.

"A connoisseur then?" He laughs again.

Hannibal tugs at his cuffs. "Something of the sort."

Pierce turns suddenly, as though remembering. "I don't believe I got your name." Hannibal feels that dark, creeping thrill. He steps close, and his teeth glint like white stars. He offers his hand. Their palms clap together. A firm shake, and then another. Saliva pools under his tongue.

"Hannibal Lecter."

* * *

He flays the pink heart, and drops it in the popping skillet. Wooden spoon in hand, he stirs in the coriander and tumeric. A splash of worcester and three diced tomatoes. A pinch of salt, a dash of pepper. He sets the table, good porcelain dishes and heavy flatware. Scentless candles are lit, and their yellow flames burn dim. He hums something nameless, and his eyes smile. His doorbell will chime soon.

Two plates are prepared. Like clockwork, a chime is heard. Hannibal straightens his vest, and smiles again. Five steps into the foyer, and he opens the door. Will stands on his doorstep, like misery incarnate. His umber curls hang like a veil, and his pale face draws tight. Thick, square glasses slump down his nose. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to. Hannibal steps aside. "Please, come in."

He does so wordlessly. They stand in silence. Will furls into himself like grey smoke, and his eyes shine wetly. "He didn't come." Barely audible, a cracked murmur. Hannibal feels triumphant. _Of course he didn't, dear William. Of course he didn't. _He offers a small, sympathetic frown. "Then he was a fool."

Will looks up sharply, startled. Hannibal stands tall. Heat boils down like a warm front, and thunder brews.

"Come. I've made dinner." Hannibal says suddenly. He ushers Will forward with a low hand, warming in the shallow dip of his back. Will can only stammer and shake and stumble. The dining room is lavish, carmine candle wicks and velvet tablecloth. Two places are set, complete with wine glasses and ivory plates. A bottle of Rosa Regale sits among smoky ice chips. A small feast spans the length of the table. The cold, white lights are low. It feels _intimate_.

"Were you expecting someone?" Will takes a hesitant step back. "Your table is set for two."

"My table is always set for two, as I have many unexpected guests." Hannibal reassures, but Will looks stricken.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude. I should-"

"Sit, William. The meal is going cold."

Hannibal pulls a chair, wooden legs scraping, and gestures for him to sit. He does so reluctantly, and Hannibal leans close. Will stiffens at the hot wash of breath. "Dinner is served." Teeth graze the shell of his ear, and he jerks. His toes curl, and his skin prickles. He makes a breathy, quiet noise. No time to wonder, as Hannibal stands and takes his own seat. They sit across from one another, a sputtering candle flame between them.

Will looks down at his meal. A ceramic bowl filled with meat slices and stark greens and reds, smelling faintly spicy. "What is this, Doctor? It smells divine." Hannibal nearly purrs.

"It's a Jalfraizi recipe for beef curry. And please, we're sharing a meal. Not psychoanalyzing a serial murderer. Hannibal will do fine." He admonishes lightly. Will burns like an ember. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't know what to say. His pale fingers find the cold, polished fork. He takes a careful bite, and Hannibal watches. Red meat and green pepper smear across pink lips, tasted and chewed and swallowed.

He eats the heart of another man, a potential lover, and Hannibal watches.

He is consumed by something instinctual and dark. He smiles a terrible smile. Will, his William. He hungers, but this hunger is different and new. He doesn't want to rip and tear and ruin, he wants to nibble and lick and _keep_. Like a golden-winged warbler, Will should be coveted and treasured. Hidden away in a cedar chest, kept under lock and key. His broken, beautiful mind. His white, thin flesh. Hannibal will take everything.

"This is delicious. I've never tasted anything like it." Will hums around his fork. Hannibal stares a little intently. "Thank you, William. As you know, my kitchen is always open to friends." Again, Will flounders for words. "I-Thank you. I'm grateful."

A beat of silence.

"Will you tell me why your heart breaks? This man, he was little more than a stranger." Hannibal asks, quiet and unobtrusive.

Will straightens in his seat. "It isn't the man, not really. I just..." He deflates. "I let myself dream. I thought he wanted to know me, spend time with me outside of a crime scene. I got my hopes up, and he never came. I should know better than to hope."

"You shouldn't judge yourself so harshly. I enjoy your company."

"You're my therapist. You tolerate my company."

Hannibal frowns. "Right now, we aren't doctor and patient. If I did not enjoy your company, you would not be eating my food. In my home."

Will laughs, a bitter sound. "That was almost believable."

Enough. _Enough_. Hannibal stands, and the chair clatters back. Will jolts. His eyes are round and bright, like ocean puddles. "What are you doing?" He whispers, afraid. Hannibal is quiet. He pushes in his chair, straightens his vest, and stalks around the table. "I'm going to show you, William. Words are not enough." Will breathes too sharply. He shrinks into himself, but Hannibal yanks him to his feet. Plates are swept aside, shattering against the hardwood, and his back is pinned to the table edge. Their fronts meet intimately, his wrists are held to the tablecloth. "You will understand."

"Hannibal-!" Their mouths crash like the mid noon tide. Will makes a pitchy, desperate noise. Hard bites and apologetic licks, their tongues tangle into a wet knot. It has meaning, and Will wants to fight. _He has to fight_. He squirms, and Hannibal rolls into him. Their hips jerk, and friction builds. Will struggles for breath, he can't _breathe_. His button up is pulled from its neat tuck, and his belt is loosened. So fast, too fast.

He turns away, gasping for air. Hannibal smiles, and licks the taut chords of his throat. "P-Please, I can't-!"

"You can, and you will."

Will is suddenly spinning, and Hannibal presses from behind. Back to chest, quivering back to stonelike chest. Cold hands smooth up his sides, and he chokes out something unintelligible. His shirt is all but ripped from his shoulders, buttons skidding across the tabletop. "W-Wait-!" A hot mouth suckles the small knobs of his spine. He spasms wildly, arching back into the lips and teeth. Never felt this, not ever. "Nnngh-Ah! Why are you-!"

"You need to understand, Will." His blue jeans hang low and precarious on his bony hips. Hannibal dips past the tight waistline, and cool palms wrap around his inner thighs. "Understand - Understand what?" He gasps. His lips are red and wet and trembling, and _fuck_, his vision is white and black and blurry. He can't think past the cotton clouds and volcanic eruptions in his too-loud-brain. He's hard, he suddenly realizes. So hard, and it kind of hurts in that feels-so-good way. "I don't understand, I don't!"

"You are mine to do with as I please, _as you will always be_." And those words clang like church bells, clear and absolute. Any argument, Will knew, would fall on deaf ears. Hannibal has said his piece, and Will is meant to accept and obey. This is a different Hannibal, a scarey Hannibal. The finality of it all is terrifying, and he feels a little too claustrophobic.

"I-What?" He says stupidly. No reply.

His jeans pool around his knocking knees, and big hands take his hips in a practically-steel-vice. Hannibal is kneeling behind him, and Will has never felt _so fucking vulnerable_. He breathes harshly. Erratic, desperate noises. "Please, don't. Don't." Careful fingers spread him apart. Lips find his pink pucker, nibbling and sucking like he were some candied dessert. He whines quietly, pleads half heartedly. Stop, it feelssogood, please _stop_.

His glasses fall down his nose, and he feels kind of blind and kind of scared. Hannibal licks him in long, hot stripes. He shakes and blushes like the fucking fragile virgin he is. And then a tongue is pushing _inside_, and Will sort of _loses it_. He slumps over the table, his face pressed to the velvet runner, and moans like a debauched whore. No one has touched him like this, no one has-has-_fuck_. This is new and terrifying and ohsogood. "Gah-nngh!"

It stops. Will is left a writhing, panting mess. Hannibal stands, and leans over him. A jungle cat predator, a looming shadow. Something melodramatic, nevertheless intimidating. "I'm going to take you, Will. All of you. You will beg me, you will scream my name. You will forget everything, everything except for the here and now." A dark, low promise. "Do you understand?"

Will closes his eyes, shame coloring his face rogue. "I understand."

Everything happens too fast. Clothing is shucked aside, and skin meets with a subdued pop. Too fast, too fast. Something like a steel beam is sliding between his naked cheeks, too hot and too big. It won't fit. It won't fit. "Wait! I-I can't. You won't fit-you won't-" Will babbles a little hysterically. Hannibal shushes him with butterfly kisses. "I'll fit, and you'll hurt. But you'll _remember_." They press so tightly, fusing on a chemical level. Inseparable.

Will stares at the strewn silverware, and thinks about anything but the hard body at his back. Escape is impossible, laughable even. He can't run, he can't hide. Pressure builds, and his breath catches. Hannibal, his cock is downright _intimidating_. Thick, one forearm thick, and bobbing tall. Purple veins wrap like ribbon around white marble. The head, cherry bright and glistening, flares like a snake hood. Will thinks he might be having a panic attack.

"Please. Go slow." He whispers.

And Hannibal is forcing his way in. Will chokes on a scream. Hannibal holds him like he matters, even as he buries himself deep. His cock is swallowed up by tight muscle. Sinking into otherworldly heat, pulling and pushing and squeezing. So good, it must be a wanton dream. Hannibal stifles a sound. "You're something of fantasy, Will. Something of dreams." He says through his teeth. Will can't speak, can barely breathe.

They hold themselves tensely. Hannibal waits, because Will is worth it. But his patience is quick to crumble, and he starts slow. Out, in, and out again. Slow, gentle rocking. Will is stiff as creeping death. He gasps, wet and broken, with every thrust. A little deeper, a little deeper, _a little deeper_. Long, hard strokes. Will, despite himself, is beginning to loosen. His shoulder is bathed with sticky kisses, like cookie dough. Hannibal rubs small, warm circles into his stomach. He feels full, and he kind of likes it.

A little faster, a little harder. The table rattles, and the dishware clinks. The wet slap of skin is obnoxious. Hannibal straightens, and looks down at his perfect, broken dream. Bruised and bitten, huffing and puffing. He smiles. He takes purple mottled hips in hand, and fucks with devastating force. Will slides across the tabletop, his eyes rolling like marbles. He sees stars and suns and fucking _solar systems_. Too much, too much.

They stand together. The room tilts. Hannibal wraps around him like a seatbelt. One arm tucked around his waist, one arm slung across his chest. His cock is flushed with fever, bouncing against his belly. The friction grows and morphs like something sentient. Too hard, too slow. Not hard enough, not slow enough. _Just not enough_. Their mouths crash like bullet trains.

The peak is too close, they've gathered too much speed. They fall quietly. Hannibal bites down, hard. His teeth sink, shattering vessels and drawing sweet blood. The coppery tang floods his mouth. Will feels the warmth splattering his insides. He feels the teeth tearing into his shoulder. Too much, _too much_. He explodes in a spritz of white, glossy driblets spattering his stomach. He makes a weak, cracked sound.

His head feels like a balloon. His limbs hang limp. His eyes fall heavy.

He might be blacking out.

* * *

"Missing?" Will pales, shifting uncomfortably. Jack looks grim.

"Pierce Noir went missing just outside of Quantico. He was last seen at Morais Vineyard and Winery, three days ago."

It all comes together, like the universe stuffing itself into his brain. Hannibal. It was Hannibal, it has _always been Hannibal_. Pierce is dead. Hannibal killed him. Makes no sense, whywhywhywhy? No motive. For him? No. No, not for him. It couldn't be for him. He isn't special, he _isn't special_. Pierce is dead. Because of him. Nonononono-

His shoulder aches, stark purple teeth marks, and he doesn't say anything.


End file.
